A Sonata for the Fallen
by MexMarco
Summary: Post ChojinCrown AU After suffering a crushing loss at the hands of Kevin Mask in the Chojin Crown finals, Mantaro must now face his greatest challenge yet and discover the true meaning of defeat. COMPLETE. Finally!
1. Shame That Lived On For Generations

**DISCLAIMER: **Kinnikuman Nisei/Yudetamago doesn't belong to me. If it did, Monsieur Cheeks would have a powerful Fart Cannon ability.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Well, I'm back for like… the third or fourth time already? I don't like keeping track of those things so you guys do the math.

I find it funny how, whenever I used to post something here back in the day, I started showing how awesome my story supposedly was and how it'd take the fanfic world by surprise and such by writing pointless rants that nobody would really care about. In the end I'd either suffer a lack of motivation or I'd get bored of what I was writing, calling it quits and making a whole drama out of it.

Right now, I think I've matured a bit as a writer and as a person. There won't be any egotistical banter this time; it'll be only you, me and the chapter you're about to read.

As for the story, I can't really talk about it because I'd get everybody's hopes up and I'm afraid of being a major disappointment again. Let's just say it's something I pondered out of pure curiosity, like an experienced gambler predicting the aftermath of a Blackjack game.

Hope you like it.

**SUMMARY: **(Post Chojin-Crown AU) After Mantaro's defeat at the hands of Kevin Mask in the Chojin Crown finals, the Kinniku Prince takes what's left of his pride and ponders if there will ever be room for a comeback.

(ROFL. Gay… But I swear the story itself is pretty manly!)

**A Sonata for The Fallen**

**Chapter 1: Shame That Lived On For Generations**

_By MexMarco!_

Elegant, yet monotonous and solitaire, the dining room of the Kinniku royal castle boasted an excellence found only in fairy tales, anecdotes of aesthetic grandeur passed down from generation to generation ever since the dawn of knowledge and reason in the universe. Amongst the curtains made entirely out of exclusive ranch mink, the massive windows framed by gold, the glorious statues that resembled the fifty eight brave men to occupy the Kinniku throne, the beige walls of the splendid locale were almost parched by photographs, paintings, newspaper cutouts and even holograms that accurately portrayed and celebrated their memorable prowess in the ring. From the very first victory of Mayumi Kinniku against his arch-rival Harabote, to the climax of brute strength and determination shown by Suguru Kinniku in his victory against the almost invincible Kinnikuman Super Phoenix, and lastly, to the actual Prince Mantaro Kinniku's first professional victory against dMp member Dialbolic, the history of all the brave Muscle Men was summed up to become one of the universe's greatest legends ever known.

However, to Suguru and Bibinba Kinniku, the current rulers of the barren and desert like Muscle Planet, the table they were comfortably sitting at, the Wall Of Fame and their hearts were invaded by a hollow feeling of dread that crept over everything that reminded them of their son Mantaro, almost like an invisible plague. Nearly three months ago, in the final round of the Chojin Olympics tournament, the Kinniku heir ended the legendary streak of the royal family by suffering a devastating loss against an infuriated and driven mad Kevin Mask, falling victim to his three most powerful moves one after another. With his arms, his back, his neck and his now manifested pride broken, Mantaro somehow managed to survive thanks to the intensive care and support of his friends and family.

Through time, his splintered bones melded together, the painful contusions on his skin faded away and the rest of his injuries healed, but there was nothing anybody could do about the Prince's shattered psyche. He remained silent for entire days, and not even the dirty jokes of Terry, Dik Dik's and Wally's words of encouragement or his mother's freshly cooked gyuudon helped him leave such a stoic state. One day, not caring enough to leave a goodbye letter or a logical explanation behind, Mantaro disappeared without a trace while his escorts were distracted.

Bibinba could still remember the intense sadness and desperation she felt when she turned the doorknob of her son's room to meet with such a desolate image, a vivid representation of melancholy, defeat and burning shame. The loud, exasperating sound of modern rock music that used to linger in the small, green room had been replaced by the inane ruffling and fluttering of the recently opened window's curtains against the autumn wind. That same dry and stagnant feeling remained in her mouth as she tried to eat a small portion of chicken salad, her first meal in days.

-Bibinba, please eat…- A worried Suguru furrowed his old brow with concern while looking at his wife, who idly continued to draw deformed circles around the freshly cut lettuce with the aid of her fork.

The Queen, who was always famous for her beauty, almost mystical and uncharacteristic of her age, eyed her King with painful monotony across the table. Her fine auburn hair unkempt, her cheeks devoid of their previous fullness and her eyes almost dead and emotionless made Suguru wonder if the woman who was about to address him was his wife.

-I'm trying, honey. I'm really trying…- Bibinba let out a sigh that forcefully came out like a sob. She brushed away a few bangs from her forehead and took a few slices of chicken into her mouth, chewing lazily.

-Mantaro will come back eventually. He's still young and hot blooded. I'm sure if we give him enough time…-

Before he could go on, Suguru was abruptly interrupted by Bibinba.

-Why are you so sure of that?-

The question pierced through Suguru's heart like a pitchfork, but he had to remain calm for his wife's sake.

-I have faith in our son. He's maturing, and will come back to us as a better person. Soon he'll be a real man, and not a clumsy, farting Chojin like his dad.- The King gathered all his courage to put up one of his trademark wide, dumb grins. –Mantaro has embarked on a quest to find himself.-

Bibinba chuckled at her husband's joke, and smiled at him for the first time in a month. Suguru returned the smile and gently leaned forward, puckering his thick lips; Bibinba giggled and graced her pink, soft looking lips against her husband's. –I hope you're right.- She said in a weak voice.

Suguru stood up from the chair and smiled sweetly at his wife. –I'll be at the holophone room with Meat waiting for any possible calls. Will you be alright in the meantime?-

The Queen nodded at her husband and continued eating, her expression a bit more hopeful and serene. She followed Suguru outside of the room with her eyes and, once he left, she dropped her fork on the plate and stared blankly at it before grabbing the porcelain dish and flinging it violently against one of the few empty spots on the Wall Of Fame, the one that would belong to Mantaro's Chojin Crown victory.

Meanwhile, a Kinnikuman taken aback by an intense sorrow broke into tears in one of the castle's many well-illuminated hallways.

Days went by and Mantaro's whereabouts remained a mystery. The King's and Queen's hope faltered like the flame of a dying candle. Bibinba's psychological state became worse, to the point where she wouldn't speak to anyone and would lock herself in the royal bedroom to wait for her son's arrival, always sitting by the window that led to the castle's magnificent courtyard and most of its surroundings.

The Queen simply sighed and rubbed her swollen eyes. Nearly two days ago, a blizzard had struck most of the planet, coloring its fields a bright porcelain white that seemed to purify each and every corner of the deserts, villages and cities. Bibinba hoped that this rain of unsullied purity would somehow bring her son back, but nothing happened during the course of the day.

She was suddenly pulled out of her trance by a dull knock on the wooden door of the bedroom. The knocks continued for a few seconds but she decided not to answer until the person behind the door identified itself.

-Lady Bibinba,- A somewhat obnoxious yet stifled truck driver voice echoed through the room. –It's me, Meat. I came to bring you some appetizers; may I come in?-

Bibinba sighed and let the plump assistant in. He was carrying a small tray of sliced sandwiches and a small glass of milk in his short hands, which he balanced perfectly like the most experienced butler. Meat finally reached a small bureau placed right by the window, stood on the tip of his toes and gently placed the silver tray on the piece of furniture with an almost feminine delicacy; afterwards, he greeted the Queen with a bow.

The auburn haired woman skipped through all the etiquette. -Any news about my son?-

Meat exhaled deeply and shook his head, adjusting his big glasses with a push of an index finger. –We've been doing our best. The space police force will inform us immediately if they find him, and even some of the new Seigi Chojins are helping them to the best of their ability. I'm sure they'll find Nisei soon.- The small trainer laced fingers with Bibinba and gave her a sympathetic smile, but the Queen, desperate to see her son once more, simply fell on her knees and leaned against Meat's shoulder. Almost instantly, her face contracted, her lower lip began to tremble and finally she began to cry while clenching her assistant's cape.

The plump trainer couldn't help but run a hand through Bibinba's hair, whispering soothing words into her ears while letting her take out all the frustration by screaming against the fabric of his cape, and slamming her fist softly against his collarbone.

His eyes reddened and soft sobs escaped from his mouth, tempting him to join the painstaking ritual; but he was about to finally give in when a small, unfamiliar shadow materialized in the vast indigo horizon seen through the window, apparently moving closer towards the castle at a slow yet consistent speed. Meat adjusted his glasses once more and even forced his eyelids to obtain a clear and less arbitrary conclusion; after all, it could be anyone… anyone but _him_.

The steady pace of the individual, visibly a tall and fit man, continued rhythmically. He approached the castle limits further until the guards taking care of the main gate, the so called sentinels, aimed their surveillance lights at him.

Wearing a pair of worn out jeans; a leather jacket and beret torn almost to rags; a pair of boots that would be otherwise rendered unusable and a hefty backpack that hung over his right shoulder, the hobo-like Mantaro Kinniku shaded his eyes with the aid of his hand and waved at the sentinels frantically to turn off the light. Several pounds of snow rested on his shoulders and beret, reflecting those intense lights like natural mirrors.

-Nisei!- Yelled Meat upon recognizing his protégée and friend, his eyes already watery due to the immense joy.

Bibinba's body skipped a heartbeat once she heard her son's name and simply continued crying, this time out of happiness and relief. She decided not to turn around; her prayers and faith had finally paid off, so there was no room in her heart for any doubt: Her baby boy was finally home, where he belonged.

_  
The Kenyon Ranch, somewhere in Texas…_

It was around noon outside of the Kenyon residence. The intense sunlight that showered over the modest wooden house, the place where Terry The Kid had spent most of his childhood, cast pitch black shadows over the dried desert terrain. The outline of each and every object that was scattered around the massive structure, from the thick heaps of hay to the old and crusty blue pick-up truck Terryman drove around the ranch, was deeply defined by morphed bodies of dense twilight.

-Pa…- Terry Kenyon groaned, wiping the sweat beading on his forehead with a handkerchief he pulled out of his denim overall. –I'm done packin' all the hay an' I fed the broncos like you wanted to. I hope that's enough fer ya.-

Terryman, the old hero whose face was filled with wrinkles that gave him a sage-like appearance, adjusted the brim of his cowboy hat and chuckled.

-I'm not sure, son. We still need to park da truck inside the new garage we built, remember?-

The son slapped his forehead. –Dad… That's not even a garage. It's just a really huge tent made out of… canvas and wood?.-

The American legend continued chewing up his tobacco while shifting his attention towards his newly built garage. Indeed, he noticed it lacked the refinement and compact appearance of a common city structure; however, assuming the role of the stern and stubborn father, Terryman nodded to himself and spat the now flavorless tobacco towards an empty Coke can that rested on the wooden fence surrounding the house. The loud yet satisfactory metallic sound heard as the tin can fell made the Texan chuckle; his ace marksmanship was still intact.

-I gotcha, kid.- Terryman cupped his chin and frowned his upper lip, inspecting the sorry excuse of a garage once again. –Then we're drivin' to the city first thing tomorrow morning. We'll get all th' materials we need to build a real man's garage: iron bars, bricks, cement, paint, and maybe even a few steaks and a pack o' brews t' make a nice barbecue once we're done.-

Terry's jaw slammed the ground hard like a slab of concrete. –Are you serious! Buildin' a garage will take us more than just a few hours! It'll take us days!-

-Then it'll be good to have ya around a bit longer, son.- Terryman wiggled his eyebrows at the young Chojin.

The Texan Muscle Leaguer was about to start complaining at the sudden change of plans when his mother, the beautiful and exuberant Natsuko, came walking down the stairs of the house's porch wearing a plaid shirt, deep blue jeans and shin high cowboy boots.

-Don't worry about your father, Terry. He's getting old after all…- She giggled, gently nudging Terryman's ribs with her elbow. The Texan legend blushed and tried to parry away Natsuko's arm. –Plus, I'm sure you wouldn't have a chance to stay once I give you the good news.-

Terry's big, blue eyes narrowed to sapphire slits. –What good news, ma?-

Natsuko grinned and wrapped her arm around the crook of her husband's elbow. –Mantaro came back home last night. He's at his castle in Kinniku Planet.-

-No way!- The bronco's tired and sullen expression suddenly became almost as bright as the sunlight that heated his skin. –Then I gotta go and celebrate his return! I gotta call everyone in the league!-

Terry happily continued verbally organizing his agenda with a giddy and optimistic mood, stammering and sometimes even saying nonsense while Terryman and Natsuko looked at him with a big smile on their faces.

The former journalist poked Terryman's ribs, biting her bottom lip and wiggling her eyebrows. –Someone's gonna have a lot of work to do now that our son is going to leave. That garage needs a good fixing now that I think about it.-

Terryman grimaced, lowering the brim of his hat to cover his eyes.

-Fudge.- He mumbled.


	2. When Souls Bleed

**DISCLAIMER: **¡Kinnikuman Nisei/Ultimate Muscle no es mío!

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **I apologize in advance if everybody had a bit of a hard time reading the previous chapter. It seems that since the last time I posted anything here, started a Nazi-like character policy.

This chapter came out rather fast, didn't it? That's because I have chosen to post chapters revolving around a certain scene, rather than writing several parts into one huge body of text, mostly because of the site's character filter. That makes it a bit difficult to place horizontal lines or anything else that could vaguely hint a change of scene.

Also, by writing one scene chapters (Just like Tom Clancy, if you think about it) I get to post constantly and thus motivate myself to keep going; moreover, I guess this method would make the fic easier for you guys to read. Nevertheless, if you prefer the fic's previous multi-scene format, I'm open to suggestions. Don't forget to leave your reviews whenever you can, too!

**A Sonata for The Fallen**

**Chapter 2: When Souls Bleed**  
_By MexMarco!_

To Mantaro, the small, lime colored room looked the same way he had left it before running away that fateful day, or at least that's what the perspective from his bed could offer. Even when all the previously scattered notebooks and magazines were placed in their respective bookshelves, the bed was tidily fixed and the Prince's CD library was thoroughly organized in long, transparent plastic racks set besides his multifunctional sound system, the air breathed there was dry and almost burning, regardless of the impeccable cleaning work done by the skilled maids. The reason behind this thick sensation of unrest was beyond physical; the stagnancy of the air didn't burn the hog prince's lungs as much as the memories that floated through the extensive river of his afflicted mind. He was fully aware that the injuries had healed. The doctors told him that over and over like the cacophony of a damaged record; however, those cuts, now turned into scars, still bled profusely, like a raging river. With the remains of a traumatic experience replacing the stream of crimson blood, Mantaro tried his best to mend the wounds of his pride while trying to get used to his former lifestyle of wealth and spoils, away from the hardships of Chojin training and the responsibilities as a representative of his adoptive nation.

The heir sat on the edge of the bed and chuckled loudly. He couldn't believe he actually missed all that.

When he came back almost a week ago, he never thought that his absence would have such an impact in the lives of everybody he met. Meat and his father had spent several nights following his vague trail; his mother had gone through a period of stress that put most of her health at risk, and his friends constantly contacted the Palace, awaiting any news about the runaway Prince. Now with his return everyone had gone euphoric, going as far as planning welcome parties for him; it was good for Mantaro to know someone cared for him in the slightest, even if they feigned it at some point.

Dressed in a plain white t-shirt and light blue jeans, the Prince calmly stared at the ceiling, resting his head on his knees. Months ago, he would be at his school desk, pretending to study while reading naughty magazines to get away from his teacher's boring lectures about topics that were as trivial as night and day, or black and white. Nevertheless, back then, there was no one who would truly understand him as his Seigi Chojin partners would: With Wally, he shared his love for food; with Terry, he finally established a bond that went beyond the formalities of rivalry or royalty; with Meat, little by little he began to respect the sport that gave his family such reputation; and with Dik… he never really got to know him well enough, but he always thought those horns were awesome: Too bad he couldn't say it, since everybody would think he was gay.

Deep inside, Mantaro found it really ironic how he had begun to value everything he had upon the realization that he was about to lose it. After all, he brought great disgrace to his family; even when his parents would still congratulate him for his outstanding effort, the empty spot in the great Wall of Fame, glaring at him as if it had eyes of its own, felt otherwise. Whenever he closed his eyes, the Muscle Prince would feel a huge, menacing and accusative finger point at him discriminately while shouting curses that practically made him weep blood. Silently, through his musings, he wondered if this unknown sensation clutching at his chest was that of ultimate defeat.

Closing his eyes and exhaling deeply, yet very slowly, he ruffled the tuft of hair protruding from his mask's forehead and finally stood up. The repulsive odor that sneaked into his nostrils lured him to smell his armpits closely while tugging at his sleeve. The thick layer of sweat smeared into the fabric, as well as the dry, rotten stench that came out of his underarms punctually announced it was time to take another shower; after all, these were the consequences of barely maintaining his hygiene during the past weeks.

He stood firmly in front of his drawer -a tall, piece of furniture made out of fine mahogany- and began to browse through the heaps of recently washed clothes in search of a clean pair of boxers. Eventually, when his arm was buried past his wrist, he felt his hand come in contact with an unknown, solid and heavy object that he pulled out rather reluctantly for further inspection. The rectangular piece of metal felt cold and deadly in Mantaro's grasp, but the he was determined to find out what it was.

The now illuminated object let out intense platinum flares from its chromed surface, forcing him to narrow his eyes. Clad in red leather, the KIN insignia sewn on it diligently, a sheated pocket knife that was given to him by his uncle Ataru rested ominously on the palm of his hand. When the Prince fixated his eyes on the shiny metal surface of this gift, everything around him faded away like a shadow, receding to the hunger of the advancing darkness. His expression solemn, intense and focused, Mantaro fiddled with the knife's handle without a trace of fear or even curiosity, something strange and never before seen in a coward like him.

After removing the safety lock from the side of the handle, a soft clicking sound preceded the appearance of the sharp, highly polished blade. The Chojin Prince looked at his own warped reflection on the piece of steel with a serious look, focusing mostly on its edge, which seemed as if it could cut through diamond like a knife on hot butter. Afterwards, he gently pressed his index finger on the blade and aimed the reflection, now sullied by his fingerprint, at his masked face with evident disdain. The hog Prince then proceeded to chuckle, admiring how the thin print embedded with the distorted image of his face manifested the current state of his soul: Segmented, deformed and scarred.

Mantaro's thoughts kept revolving around the knife, circling and feeling it in a deadly embrace, when somebody abruptly knocked on his door. The sudden sound made the Chojin gasp loudly and almost choke, as if his heart had crawled up his throat. The shock had been so strong that his arms stiffened and his hands cramped, dropping his uncle's gift in the process.

"I've come to bring you your washed undergarments, sir." A squeaky, asexual voice was heard behind the door.

Mantaro growled and quickly eyed the opened drawer. Indeed, he had no clean briefs. "Yeah…" He said with annoyance, picking up the pocket knife from the red, carpeted floor. "Would you please leave them by the door? I'll take care of that in a few minutes."

Outside the room, the fat butler grimaced and followed his master's instructions. He could only imagine the worse when he dropped the bundle of washed underwear on a small table right next to the door and left as quietly as he had arrived. "Have a great evening, sir." He mumbled.

The Prince replied and bid his anonymous butler farewell with a curse as sharp as the blade he carried in his hand.

Strangely to him, the euphoric sensation, that intense, foreboding trance he had fell into the last time he was in possession of the short blade, was nothing else beyond a blurred memory. He hesitantly placed the pocket knife on top of the drawer and resumed his previous activity, wondering if the mysterious figure that was his uncle would be at the library by the time he finished taking his shower; Mantaro had a lot of questions he felt Kinniku Ataru had answers for, questions that surreptitiously appeared during that silent encounter with the red blade.

He didn't know that the knife had pierced deep into his soul.


	3. Bad Seed

**DISCLAIMER: **Ultimate Muscle/Kinnikuman Nisei doesn't belong to me. I haven't collected enough Bazooka Joe bubble gum wraps to buy the right for the series, either way.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **And we've reached the third chapter! The characters keep getting manlier and, as you will be able to notice, the plot has been thickening while acquiring a totally new shape.

Due to certain circumstances, I'm in dire need of a proofreader to help me correct and verify the syntax/grammar of every release to give you guys the best I can offer. Also, I'm glad for all the reviews you've been giving to the fic up to this point. Thanks guys!

**A Sonata for the Fallen  
Chapter 3: Bad Seed**  
_By MexMarco!_

Quiet and overwhelmed by an unknown baroque ambience, the Royal Kinniku Library and its humongous shelves manifested their surreal splendor to Ataru Kinniku, the brother of the 58th Kinniku King, Chojin otherwise known as Kinnikuman Soldier. Having relinquished his right to inherit the Kinniku throne during his youth, Ataru traveled the Universe as a rebel and sometimes even an outlaw, early realizing his inability to follow the lineage of his royal family. It was not until the fateful day the six Kinnikumen were reunited by forces beyond his comprehension, -including Suguru, his previously unknown sibling- that he came back from his apparent death to fight in the Royal Survivor Tournament. Taking the mantle of the Kinnikuman Soldier after having defeated the real Chojin, Ataru donned a Kinniku mask once more and gathered a team strong enough to defeat the other Royal Contestants; however, the team's efforts fell short against the tenacity and brutality of the Super Phoenix team. In a final match that tested both Ataru's and Super Phoenix's ability to the maximum, the rebel Kinniku Prince and counterfeit contestant received a fatal wound from the Kinniku Revenger: His Chojin flame faded away before he was able to help Suguru reach the throne he sought for and rightly deserved.

Having revived thanks to Suguru's Face Flash technique, Ataru was invited to rule Kinniku Planet alongside his brother. Acting as a Chancellor and Seigi Chojin Prime Minister, the Prince finally made use of his savvy and sense of strategy to aid the throne capture and prosecute criminals together with The Ninja, thus creating the Chojin Untouchables.

Ataru breathed a muffled sigh; it had been so long since the Untouchable's last operation, and now that The Ninja had been apparently K.I.A. by Hanzo, another run looked impossible. Ironically, the thick volume that the Soldier held so tightly to his chest with his right arm, wrapped in leather and an iron border, was a record of all the reports turned in during his war against superhuman crime. Every letter written on the sepia hued paper and every signature that rested below its resumes highlighted the tales of glory, the success of every mission and the emblazoning of yet another anecdote into his old mind.

Despite its majestic and supernatural appearance, almost accurately representing a gothic image described by Poe himself, Ataru enjoyed the secrecy and serenity that such a hall of knowledge evoked into his soul. It didn't matter how honed his senses were, the endless rows of encyclopedias, anthologies and miscellaneous literature disappeared into the horizon, resembling almost a monotonous maze that few knew how to get out of. Due to this, there weren't many visitors who stopped by, allowing him to reclaim the locale as his personal study; not even his dear brother dared to come by.

Ataru inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmical echo of his own breathing. Relaxed by the deep sound of his flaring nostrils, his lips curved to form an invisible smile and he even began to stroke the thick bush of facial hair that emerged from the underside of his mask satisfactorily. This particular gesture of his only manifested itself during private moments of relaxation that he shared with no one but himself.

His wrinkled eyelids finally opened, but his gaze met an unexpected and frightening sight. Before him, over six feet tall, burly and smelling of garlic and several horrors of modern cuisine, a pig faced demon stood with all its repulsive might. The creature's nose wrinkled and even snorted a couple of times while fixing its menacing sapphire eyes on the helpless Ataru, who stifled a gasp as the vile wretched thing opened its filthy mouth to say in an unknown language.

"Hey, uncle. How's it going?" Mantaro asked with a half grin while waving one of his gloved hands at Ataru.

The soldier swallowed his heart, put it back in place and shook his fist in anger at his pig nephew. "Argh! How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that! What in God's name is wrong with you!"

"Um… I was thinking you'd be glad to see me." Mantaro frowned and drew circles on the tiled floor with his right foot.

_I am _Ataru thought. He seldom saw his nephew, especially ever since he started his Chojin career. The soldier only saw him in holidays, family reunions or birthday parties, although he did talk to him a bit during his fights against No Respect; nevertheless, his presence was unexpected.

"Well…" Ataru placed the book he was holding on the empty space of a nearby shelf and patted off the dust from his vest and cape. "How'd you get this far anyway? This library is supposed to be about as complex as an English courtyard maze."

The Prince simply cleared his throat and pointed towards a big sized map of the library built in the same fashion of that of a mall. Pointing at both Kinnikus current location with an arrow that said "YOU ARE HERE" in bold white letters, said map was apparently built onto the side of the massive bookshelf. Ataru rolled his eyes and nodded to himself, letting his arms hang in defeat: He shouldn't have installed those.

"Is there anything you need? Bear in mind this is not a food court." Ataru said, folding his arms on his back. "But if you're here for something serious, there are plenty of books here, so help yourself."

"Actually, what I needed was… is advice. I'm sure you've been up to date with what has been happening with the family and… me." Mantaro looked at his uncle solemnly.

"Ah…" Ataru cupped his chin and began to walk around the library, waving at his nephew to follow him. Indeed, he had heard all about Mantaro's painful loss at the hands of Robin Mask's son, as well as his current state of depression which he immediately noticed by his gestures, posture and way of talking. As a soldier, he was able to perceive the fear, doubt and anger of even the most inexpressive of men. "So, you've come to me to ask for advice. Mind if I ask why you didn't consult your father first?"

Mantaro followed Ataru aimlessly throughout the library, listening to the dull echo and clacking of their footsteps. "I discarded my dad from the beginning. I think I know him well enough to find out what he'd tell me. Same with Grandpa."

"How so? They have both participated in the Chojin Olympics at least once, Mantaro, whereas I have only seen 'action' during that tournament where your father was crowned King…" Ataru stopped abruptly after the last sentence, giving his nephew a quick glare. "Are you implying you've come to me so I can talk to you about defeat?"

The Prince shook his head and flailed his arms slowly, trying to catch up with his uncle. "No! Of course not! That's not the reason I've come to see you." Ataru knew he said the truth.

"So what?" Ataru kept pressing further with his harsh interrogatory.

Mantaro swallowed deeply, took a deep breath and halted a few steps behind his uncle. "You left home when you refused to inherit the throne… right?"

Ataru narrowed his eyes to thin slits. What was his nephew up to now? "Yes, I did. At first, your grandfather started denying my existence because he was never able to understand my reasons. Now that I'm back home helping your father… he just gets really mad whenever I ask him to give me the salt every time we meet at dinner." He explained with a chuckle.

"Then, you've finally made amends with him?" The Prince asked with an uncharacteristic tone that exuded hope.

The soldier shook his head slowly, gave his back to Mantaro and continued walking. "I let down my father… your 'grandpa' when I refused to don the mantle of his legend. He has an obviously good reason to be mad at me, after all; he poured all his life into achieving all those victories… but I just shrugged and walked away." Strangely, Ataru's anecdote didn't sound at all painful or filled with sorrow.

"Why did you do that then?"

Ataru's fingers curled into fists and his invisible brow furrowed, tugging at the fabric of his green mask. "Get straight to the point, Mantaro."

Mantaro felt his uncle's coldness, but gathered enough courage to avoid wetting his pants and running off as fast as his legs allowed him. "I'm trying to… but I wish I could listen to your reasons for doing such a thing."

Ataru growled under his breath. _Such a thing _he said repeatedly to himself, knowing that, as usual, he wasn't understood for his actions. Still, he felt he owed an explanation to Mantaro.

"Because I saw that the life of royalty, its splendor and regal endeavors weren't the bricks of the path I wanted to follow. Happy now?" He replied harshly. "Fine. Two hallways to the west and you'll be out of here, where you belong." Ataru kept walking, not even bothering to bid his nephew goodbye.

The Prince thought his choices over, but something about his uncle's demeanor forced him to try his luck. "No! I'm not leaving until you tell me why you decided to emancipate from the family!"

Ataru stopped abruptly, bringing his teeth behind his mask to bear. "What!" He hissed furiously.

"I know it all! Not only did you run off, you also renounced to the Kinniku name. You're not even supposed to be stepping foot into the castle!"

The following few seconds were a slow motioned, blurry haze for Mantaro. Ataru turned to his left, stretched out an arm and firmly squeezed his nephew's temples with inhuman strength, burying his fingers into his skull. Surprised and overwhelmed by the pain, the Prince crumbled under his own weight, falling on his knees with a thud. The soldier simply swung his arm towards the nearest shelf, slamming Mantaro on the wood; afterwards, his nostrils flaring painfully, Ataru pressed his forearm into his nephew's throat, putting him in an improvised chokehold.

"Who told you that…?" Ataru tried to remain calm but lost patience and asked once more. "WHO TOLD YOU THAT!"

Mantaro struggled against his uncle's strong arm while trying to breathe. His efforts were futile. "Ack… It was… Grandpa… Is that why... he always says you don't exist?"

Ataru was losing his patience. "Why does this matter to you! What benefits from all of this! Who! Did you go all Nancy Drew on me, minding other people's business because you thought it was fun!" His eyes soon were as big as dollar coins. "Don't think you'll take advantage out of the depressed and sullen kid drama you've been staging over the past few months!"

The Prince's eyes became watery and his grip on consciousness was faltering, but still he was able to speak, even if it was incoherently. "Ugh… Do you… rmph… remember my last birthday? The gift you gave me?" He slowly slid a hand into his pant's pockets and pulled out the crimson pocket knife his uncle had given him, the sheath pointing towards him as a gesture of trust.

Taking the knife off Mantaro's grasp with relative ease, Ataru let go off his nephew's throat and, through a quick repositioning of his arms, he grappled the Prince by the elbows. He looked at him so fiercely and closely that both their eyes watered; Ataru even got a direct sample of his nephew's horrid breath as he gasped for air.

With the coldness of a calculating machine, the Soldier bent his whole body backwards while pulling Mantaro's arms with an underhook lock, arching his back to an impossible angle. The Prince, helpless due to his lack of breath and partial disorientation, lunged forward immediately, thus hitting the floor like a slab of concrete with his shoulders and neck. Bones cracked loudly as the victim opened his mouth, but only gagging and guttural sounds emerged from his throat.

"REVERSE TIGER SUPLEX NIKUDAN STYLE!" Ataru yelled out loud as he let go off Mantaro's stiff arms. The Prince stared blankly at the ceiling while taking very deep and audible gasps. His neck felt like an iron rod at melting point… certainly it was an unbearable pain that he rarely ever experienced, even during his matches against foes as strong as Mars or Checkmate.

"Let that be a lesson for you. Hopefully you will stop being so nosey… figuratively." Ataru spat with anger while looking down at his nephew's tattered body, having no regrets towards his latest actions.

The old generation Prince was about to walk away from such a depressing scene when he felt a loose hand driven by poor volition grip around his ankle. Ataru hissed at Mantaro once more and turn around to meet quite an unexpected sight: It was his nephew, growling angrily while pointing at the knife he had been holding for the past few seconds.

"I understand you, uncle… I know… why you left home." Mantaro tried to incorporate himself but his knees failed him, forcing him to sit on the floor instead.

"Bullocks…" Ataru grumbled. He had been disappointed by similar words too many times during his nearly five decades of life.

"NO!" Mantaro yelled angrily before reaching a coughing fit. All the time, he tried to look at Ataru in the eyes. "I know what it feels like… to carry on someone else's legacy … fighting not for yourself but for the approval of others! I failed everyone because it wasn't me standing on that ring on the first place! It was…"

"SILENCE!" Ataru shook his fist at Mantaro, but the Prince's expression remained the same. "You have no idea about what you're saying!"

"I WAS ABOUT TO RIP OFF MY MASK LAST NIGHT WITH YOUR KNIFE!" Mantaro yelled with an anger that had accumulated from years and years of victories and losses, glory and defeat, beatification and humiliation; in a nutshell, the sum of an eternity of condescendence that fed the raging fire of his heart like the heat of a thousand suns. Every word that emerged from his dry, swollen monkey lips sounded like the poetry of the defeated, the cry of the conquered. It was simply like a sonata for the fallen, a dying roar let out not by sore losers but warriors who have lost the battle of life.

Ataru was speechless when such tragic words rang inside his eardrums. Disbelief was the only thing his old and tired eyes could exteriorize. "What… did you just say?"

The Prince looked down at the floor, waiting for the stiffness to abandon his sore body. Contrasting with Mantaro's full fledged sorrow, his expression demonstrated anger and bitterness at his apparent lack of strength and integrity. "You're not… going to have me say it again… are you?" He muttered angrily in between gasps. "I'm tired of being everybody's superhero, trying to keep up with ridiculous standards and training that really doesn't leave me with anything besides pain and fatigue. I know why you ran away, uncle…"

The soldier stared blankly at his nephew.

"You hate this family, don't you? You hate being a Kinniku, somebody forging a legend against his own god damned will." Mantaro scratched his head and tried to get back on his feet once again, losing his balance once again despite his struggling; however, before crumbling once again his fall was stopped by the help of two firm hands.

Eyeing him thoughtfully, Ataru held Mantaro by his armpits. The moment both of them exchanged glances lasted almost an eternity before the rebel Kinniku draped his nephew's arm around his neck to help him walk.

"Before you dare to say just _one more word_, let's head over to my study room. We need to talk." Ataru's voice shook the room's foundation like a thunderstorm. Mantaro simply nodded, looking at his uncle in shock.

Nearly five minutes later, the two men vanished from the library's eternal vastness. The only memory left from their encounter was a circular shaped, caved in portion of the polished floor surrounded by cracks and rifts, as well as the abject remains of what appeared to be a tiny blade.


	4. Defeat and Redemption

**DISCLAIMER:** You think Ultimate Muscle/Kinnikuman Nisei is my property? Dream on, beeyatch.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**GODDAMN!!!**

Life has been hard on me the past two years. What can I say? Certain personal problems and crises kept brewing with no signs of stopping. Eventually, it was all so intolerable that I had partially lost my love for writing. Talk about tragic.

I'm turning 20 next Saturday, and I'm of the firm belief that things are looking up.

As for the not-so-appropriate introduction to this section of the chapter, er… hell. The idea of this fic has been lingering in my brain for a very long time (Years), but for whatever reason, I forgot that I had uploaded the three chapters I had written here. For all I knew, the Word documents in that particular folder titled "Fic" were drafts and no less.

Yes. It's the most idiotic of excuses, and that is why it's also particularly great in its own right.

Now I know how parents feel when they forget to pick up their kids after soccer practice! It looks like it took about seven hundred and thirty days (A modest delay!) for me to remember. My little boy must be hatin' on me real bad now. So yes.

**GODDAMN!!! **(Suplexes cow into meteor)

**Seeds of Glory: A Sonata for the Fallen****  
Chapter 4 ****–**** Defeat and Redemption **_By __MexMarco!_

Mantaro's neck continued throbbing like a pressure hose about to reach bursting point. Even though his uncle's vicious attack had definitely hurt him, he never lost consciousness and experienced no more than a heavy daze. Of course, having painstakingly made his way towards his attacker's quarters, with hardly a chance to rest, left him with a vague yet veritable desire to let go and drift away from the stinging sensation; nevertheless, he knew he had gotten very far in this encounter with his uncle, perhaps _too far_ for him to back out now and start from scratch later. Despite the chaotic state of his mind at that time, the Prince could easily recall Ataru's look of disbelief like a sharp, recently taken picture. This was the first time he had seen him react in such a vulnerable and let alone human way.

In other words, curiosity piqued him enough for him to stay awake. What exactly had he said to inspire that reaction in the soldier?

"We're finally here." said a deep voice, followed by the characteristic sound of a greased doorknob turning. "Come on in."

The hog wrestler forced a grunt and reacted to the source of that voice. Blinded by the still-present pain, he reached out his hand and began to wave it gently, taking a step forward to come in contact with the doorframe. He held tight to it and walked into the room, his other hand assuming the duty of holding his forehead as if fearing that the contents of his head might spill if he didn't do otherwise. By now, Mantaro had discovered his legs had more leverage and that the floor no longer seemed to be made out of jello.

Ataru firmly squeezed his nephew's shoulder and led him towards a comfortable padded chair with great care; then, he took a step backwards and crossed his arms over his broad, spectacularly built chest. The look in his eyes was now quizzical.

"I don't recall. Is this the first time you're here?"

"What? Sorry. I wasn't listening." Mantaro's attention was diverted with other endeavors besides listening to his uncle, such as figuratively melting on the reclining chair he was sitting on and finding the right position to rest his sore neck.

Ataru repeated his question.

"-Oh. I'm not sure either. I thought you lived in the Chojin Tower?" The Prince shrugged and let his eyes wander around the dark red room. His sight was forced to a squint as he looked directly into the four lights of a solitary ceiling fan.

Unlike most rooms that existed throughout the castle, prevailing with their royal and baroque air of opulence and wealth, Kinnikuman Soldier's study room was by far the most mundane of them all, replacing expensive silk, flawlessly clean carpets and many other neoclassical features of eclectic nature with a sober and far less outrageous ambience. Sculptures, paintings, and items of the sort were replaced by neatly framed photographs and newspaper cutouts, Chojin Wrestling memorabilia, military replicas and even a scaled down anatomical model held still by a silver stand on the room's solitary desk. As for the desk itself, it possessed no trait that would allow it to stand out as a luxurious piece of furniture, even despite its golden borders and outlines or its superb painting job. The same could be said about the plain executive-style chair behind it.

"I do live there," Ataru answered Mantaro's question, "but I don't mind having a place to rest and meditate somewhere else; after all, this used to be my room before I ran away from home." He sat at his desk afterwards, fingers pressed together with an air of wisdom.

Mantaro looked around another time. The room could have been a bedroom before, alright; at least judging by its dimensions.

Meanwhile, the soldier fixated his eyes on his nephew for the briefest of moments, longer than a heartbeat and shorter than the blink of an eye. The boy was still dazed.

"So… just a while ago you were asking me why I renounced the throne and ran away. If you're so interested, then I guess I'll tell you." The elder Chojin said while browsing the desk's drawers, grunting with increasing displeasure every second the task at hand took. His fingers eventually wrapped themselves around a small box he casually flung at the Prince who, after having caught them reflexively (with his head), discovered it contained some aspirins. He slipped one of the white pills into his mouth and focused entirely on the former prince of Muscle Planet.

Ataru breathed a sigh and lowered his head, masked lips and nose pressed against the sides of tightly clasped hands. It seemed that the soldier had a fair deal of difficulty trying to begin his story; however, it was not because of the search of a vocabulary that could suit someone with the kind of stunted intelligence Mantaro boasted. No. His account of the story was widely unknown for one reason: He had never shared it with anyone, and certainly it had passed to become a dusty old page in his memory. In a way, it was a few years close to be a mystery even to himself.

"Let's see." The elder superman rested his palms on the desk and lifted his gaze, looking at his nephew. "Do you know who the Spartans were, boy?"

Mantaro let go of his forehead and rubbed at his neck. A reply came from him in the form of a nod. "Some… ancient Earth civilization or something, right?"

"Good." Ataru reclined on his chair. "The Spartans were part of the Greek republic. They were a warrior race that was bred entirely for one purpose: War. While the strong and apt underwent the unthinkable to be a part of one of the histories' greatest war machines, the women, the weak and the frail worked as no more than mere slaves forced to sustain the mighty warriors, who could win wars simply by appearing in a battlefield." The soldier made a pause. "Ages ago, our clan was no different from them."

The Prince quit patting his pained neck and quirked an eyebrow.

"Your grandfather, your great-grandfather and the fifty six men before them were all trained to be gods of the ring, wise sovereigns and invincible warriors. Once they became of age, it was established that every prospect for the Kinniku throne would train to reach their ultimate goal or die trying. Either you become the king of your people… or you don't. No other way existed to tackle the tradition; at least not until the past generation: your father's and mine."

"One good day, exactly in my tenth birthday, I was told I had become a man. Long gone were the games, fun and joy of youth. Toy cars, storybooks and affection were replaced by grueling workouts, history lessons and strict discipline. Your grandfather thus began to train me, his only son back then, to succeed him in the throne." Ataru continued. "I fought him every day and I was scolded by him just as much. In a matter of days, or dare I say, _hours_, a grinning, bell-headed gentle giant was replaced by this stern and unforgiving ogre."

"Above all else, I wanted the pain to end, and since I hardly had a notion of what pride and tradition were back then, I had no idea as to how I could bring my father back… until the hardships and tortuous challenges forced me to develop a callous here." The soldier knocked a palm against the left side of his chest. "I no longer knew which one of the two was the real Mayumi Kinniku, but it was clear that I wanted… no… I _needed_ to take revenge on the one who was causing me all that pain, even if that meant hurting the father I so dearly loved."

At that point, the Choujin stopped and tilted his head upwards, looking to the ceiling as if pondering a crucial decision. Mantaro, on the other hand, had forgotten entirely about the pain. The tale that had reached his ears was too incredible to believe, considering the way he had been raised. He realized he had indeed fought cruel battles with sundry foes, but prior to his wrestling days, he didn't have anything to worry about in his life; nevertheless, the heir's musings came to a stop upon realizing Kinniku Ataru had stood up from his chair.

Before Kinnikuman's only son could wonder what was happening, Ataru was facing one of the many framed newspaper cutouts on the wall, apparently the largest one of the whole collection. The headline and picture were large enough for Mantaro to discern them, even from such a distance. It was a first page spread celebrating the forming of the Chojin Untouchables; nonetheless, the Prince soon discovered that it wasn't there for display purposes.

A click was heard several moments after, with the utmost delicacy, his uncle slid his fingers behind the border of the beatified memory. Ataru removed the frame to reveal a hidden panel behind it, and so he was greeted by a hi-tech safe lacking any unique characteristics, save for the keypad on its center. A code was swiftly introduced with the mild clacking of plastic against sinew, removing the hermetic lock that so diligently kept the contents of the safe shielded from the eyes of anyone but Kinniku Ataru himself.

Until now.

"That is why I decided to run away from the castle, the petty traditions, the lifestyle imposed upon me… and my home. The moment I denied my father his successor, I had ceased being a member of the royal family before his eyes." Kinnikuman Soldier resumed his story with a melancholic ring in his otherwise stern voice. He motioned at Mantaro. "Come here, kid."

His nephew obeyed in an almost Pavlovian fashion, standing up and walking towards Ataru in the same way the King Cobra sways to the music of its charmer. The Prince stood behind his uncle and waited, curious and at the same time scared of what Ataru might reveal to him; but then he saw hesitation in the otherwise nimble fingers of his uncle. They were holding the safe's handle, yet, due to some unknown influence, they refused to pull.

"What's wrong, unc?" Mantaro was surprised. This was probably one of the few times he had called the soldier that since his childhood.

Ataru turned around to face Mantaro, letting go of the safe's handle and resting his back on the wall.

"Do you know how your father became King?"

The Prince nodded. "Yeah. I've heard that story a lot of times from my grandpa and dad. You had a lot to do with his reaching the throne, right?"

"That's correct." Ataru nodded. "I helped him by teaching him the move he needed to win the tournament and beat Super Phoenix. Or at least I tried to." For all the soldier knew, this story could have been told to Mantaro ad nauseum. "I died too… but your father brought me back when I thought it was all over."

Mantaro nodded. This was more or less what he had heard from other sources, but now that he had listened to his uncle's reasons for abdicating before even being crowned, he realized something was not right. He tried hard to think about it, but his temples began to hurt shortly afterwards.

"What is it?"

"It's just that…" The Prince finally thought it through. "If you ran away from home like you did, leaving the family behind and all, why did you come back?"

Ataru remained silent for almost a minute, never breaking eye contact with his nephew. Needless to say, he made him feel really intimidated, fearing another retaliation in the form of a wrestling move as powerful as the previous, or even worse. Instead, the soldier lowered his eyes again.

"Because I discovered that following traditions isn't mandatory for my people to develop great power and equally great values. Your father spent all his childhood and most of his youth on Earth, away from the royal trials… and yet he became a memorable champion. He didn't need father's training to be a natural leader, or an honorable warrior with a heart of gold." A cough. "I followed his progress from the shadows, at first with a powerful hatred, then with disdain, later with curiosity and, lastly, with hope."

"I came back to help him because he deserved to be king, even if that mix-up controversy at the hospital couldn't be completely ignored." Ataru shrugged his shoulders. "Your father, Suguru, made me have faith in the power of our bloodline once more. That's why, as soon as it was announced that your mother was pregnant, I talked to my brother about my experiences while growing up away from home, as a result of my escape."

"We accorded that you would be raised without the cruelty of the severe Kinniku training regime. I was not going to remain idle and allow such measly things to split the family like that ever again." He sighs. "Of course, it took us many years for the Council to allow this trespass. We made it just in time, before you were given the royal mask, you know." Then, he added. "I'm entirely aware I am no more than an outcast in the eyes of the Council and the former king, but I felt I had that responsibility towards you, boy."

Mantaro gulped. "Wow."

It all made so much sense to him now. Everything did. But now that the story of the past generation had come almost full circle, the devious and perverse ghost of guilt crept over the Prince and possessed him. Only then he began to realize the extent of the idiocy and ignorance behind the words he had so self-righteously uttered back in the library.

"I… uncle Ataru…" Mantaro wasn't very good at apologizing from the heart. He forgot that quite often. "I'm sorry for what I said. If I had known how much I owed you, even before I was born, and how much you had been through, I wouldn't have even thought about saying all that crap."

"It's alright, Mantaro." Ataru stroked his beard. "I'm happy that you have understood. I should apologize, myself, for losing control back then. I shouldn't have been so rough on you." He paused abruptly then. "But there is something you still need to see."

Thus, the elder Chojin and now mentor turned around to grab the previously ignored safe's handle with a drive that was an exact antithesis of his previous reluctance. The soldier turned it open and, with his still impressive and large frame, obscured its contents from his nephew's sight.

"Have you ever wondered why I wear this black and green mask instead of the customary one worn by everyone else in the family?" Before Mantaro could even process the question, the old superman continued.

"The day I left home, Mantaro, I used the same pocket knife I gave you to tear my former mask open. Back then, of course, I was bitter, full of negative emotions and very hurt. I had no one to tell me what repercussions my actions would have had for the future." A pause. "But you know what's interesting? That even if I was aware of that, I would have still done it."

The soldier turned around. In his hands, he held the rags of an era long gone, the tattered remains of an age that will be no more. He gave it to Mantaro who, after an immediate inspection, easily identified what it was. "This…?"

Time and dirt had worn the item out to the point of having its former tan color faded, but there was no need to ask. It was a Kinniku royal mask, ripped nearly in half by the lethally even and brutal cut of a blade.

"I ripped the mask off and dropped it at the palace's doorstep the night I fled. Father had thought about burning it, but mom kept it with her as a private treasure. She gave it back the day I returned to the palace, exactly after Suguru's coronation."

Mantaro was about to smile when he noticed something unusual about the all too familiar mask. Upon closer inspection, it had dried blood smeared everywhere, but particularly in the areas circumventing the main rip in its fabric. The Prince had attempted to ask his relative what was the story behind such a prominent stain, but quickly he realized there could be only one logical explanation to it all. He would only ask the obvious if he proceeded with his inquiry.

The hog wrestler prepared the most sincere and sympathetic look he could offer to his relative, but a thinly curved monkey lip smile and a tender gaze were replaced by an agape mouth and an eyebrow arched well beyond the levels of exaggeration. An interjection of surprise tried to come out through his voice; however, only a cacophonic stammer was heard.

"Uncle!" Mantaro finally shouted.

Every iota of the world had ceased to exist when the prince was handed the tattered mask to partake in its appreciation; but when he had finished doing so, he met the sight of Kinniku Ataru carefully tugging at the brim of his military mask and rolling it off his head without a care in the world. Mantaro couldn't believe his eyes. Was a Kinniku clan member really disposing of his mask that moment?

As for Ataru, his pale face sported medium length grey hair as wild as fire, with many bangs falling freely on his forehead. A thick beard of the tone neatly outlined his strong and masculine angular jaw, chiseled and seemingly diamond hard.

Nevertheless, the most outlandish of his otherwise normal facial features was a brutal scar that ran diagonally, from the left side of his brow to halfway down his right cheek. Even though it was only ever so jagged, the thickness of it, nearly as wide as a finger, was enough to twist the Prince's expression into a fatal and instant grimace. It was evident that the shape of his scar matched that of the rip in his former mask.

Then another piece of the puzzle neatly fit into place. Mantaro's lips quivered momentarily.

"…So you're really not a part of the royal family anymore."

"As you can see, that is correct." The now maskless soldier thus inferred that his nephew knew of the penalties that could befall a clan member, if he or she ever decided to unmask: death penalties.

"I was spared, if you want to put it that way. I would never be able to come back and take the throne even if I wanted to. I was considered, as a matter of fact, dead as a royalty figure." Ataru scratched his now bare chin. "My father considers this a coward's life, and openly voices that belief when he thinks I'm not listening. But I do. Every time."

"It doesn't hurt anymore." He added.

By this point, Mantaro had nothing to do. Nothing to add. He was, for the lack of a more suitable word, overwhelmed.

"Why?" He asked weakly.

The elder Chojin took a deep breath, holding the Kinnikuman Soldier mask in his hand.

"Mantaro. My name is Kinniku Ataru. I was once a prince, just like you were… but the difference remained in the fact that I wasn't ready for that responsibility. Thus, I got rid of my mask and left home. I traveled the galaxy with as many aliases as I have fingers, having nowhere to go and nothing to live for. Then your father and his prowess as a superman revived my sense of hope and will to live."

"I did my best to help him in his quest to become king later on, dying and eventually reviving thanks to one of the universe's most inexplicable miracles. For the services I had voluntarily offered to the crown, ignoring my own status as an outlaw, my life was no longer considered forfeit, but I would never be considered royalty ever again. It didn't take too long before I was branded a joke. An opportunist."

Ataru sighed.

"But now, as I'm close to reaching my seventh decade of life, I look back to all the hardships I've underwent and the terrible mistakes I made… and I don't regret a single thing."

"I, just like you, have suffered terrible defeats. I have felt ashamed. I have felt miserable. But now that I am older… wiser… I have discovered that sometimes the growth we experience as losers of battles great and small, broad and intimate, far outweighs the darkness that tries to devour us from within. I have discovered that, from the most brutal of defeats, as well as those narrow, a promise for the future is forged. You only need to focus on surviving, so that you may live on to fulfill it."

"That is why it no longer hurts."

The soldier gently placed his hand over Mantaro's and the old ragged memory he was holding.

"…And tonight, Mantaro, I intend to pass down this teaching to you. I'm handing the torch to you, so that your loss against Kevin Mask will be rekindled no longer as a bitter chapter of your life, but as a new chance to reassert your path as a man and a superhero."

A solemn but brief pause filled the room. Soon it was broken by a frail and moved voice.

"Fight on, boy! For as long as you are alive!"

The prince, moved just as much by the words expressed by his uncle, stood still a dozen heartbeats. Soon enough, he found himself wrapping his arms around Ataru, holding him tight in an embrace that no longer expressed anguish, fright or compassion. This gesture embodied the brightest and most powerful bond that can exist between men.

A bond of respect.

Now, the mention of Kevin Mask's name no longer pained the Chojin prince, nor did it evoke any hollowness in his spirit. Instead, it now evoked a very different, intense and distinctive feeling.

Two minutes later, while still sustaining their tight embrace, Mantaro whispered.

"…You probably know what I'm going to do now, uncle."

Ataru closed his eyes and offered a nod.

"You have my blessing, Mantaro."

**Next Chapter - ??????????  
**


	5. The Drive of the Defeated

**DISCLAIMER: **Kinnikuman Nisei doesn't belong to me. If it did, the Monsieur Cheeks fight would have lasted an entire season.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **...Okay, look. I really can't bring myself to bother you with details. I feel terrible for taking like half my life to end this thing, but even then I owed to myself and to you to avoid leaving any loose ends. Finishing this has been nagging me for literally years, so finally taking it to a conclusion fills me with satisfaction. I hope you can enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed finishing it.

**A Sonata for The Fallen**

**Chapter 5: Drive of the Defeated  
**

_By MexMarco!_

"I can't bloody believe it."

"This is the fourth time you have said this, Kevin."

"-And what else do you want me to say? It's how I feel, so don't expect to hear anything else from me."

Somewhere, in an inconspicuous apartment hidden deep in the bowels of Tokyo, Japan, there persisted the kind of silence only a deep rooted anguish, hatred and shame can call forth. It came from two shadowy figures now sitting in the small, spartan living room that often doubled as a bedroom during nights of heavy drinking. As if the darkness filling the atmosphere wasn't enough, only a couple slivers of light filtered through the curtain right behind the owner of this place, a man whose head seemed to shine with a distinct glint of blue metal, and whose eyes were two suns burning with concealed anger.

He was slumping over his couch, looking at the man standing across him. It was very easy to notice both individuals were of roughly the same height and build. Common street clothes did nothing to hide their incredible, compact built, suited for feats of strength no normal man had ever been capable of.

"You got a lot of nerve showing up here... Warsman."

That name had been spat almost like vicious poison. Warsman only crossed his arms over his chest, revealing that dull gray skin for which he was known for. The Russian superman's chest rose before he released the trademark "koho" of his respiration, in what appeared to be a long and tired sigh.

"I didn't come here to apologize, Kevin."

Trying to appear unphased by what was perhaps the most hurtful words he'd heard from his mentor since his sudden and painful goodbye, Kevin Mask crossed his legs over the coffee table in front of him and tilted his head. His helmet brushed against the lapel of his leather trenchcoat, producing a sudden slicing sound.

Two yellow eyes narrowed like those of a snake.

"Well, then I don't know what the fark it is you want by showing up at my doorstep like this, mate."

"And yet you didn't seem all that surprised to have me show up here, so... out of the blue as you like to say it, da?" Warsman replied, remaining stoic. "You were expecting me."

Kevin tried to keep his eyes locked on Warsman, but the weight of his words humbled him to the point his head became suddenly lowered. His tone was that of whispered pain.

"Yeah. I was."

Warsman knew how hard it was for Kevin to come to this admission, and thus his arms finally hung relaxed at his sides. Still, his fingers remained balled into fists.

"How did you find out?"

"About the Kinniku pig?"

"Da."

The heir of the Mask family made a short and thoughtful noise as he recalled the events that transpired earlier that afternoon, not without wishing they hadn't taken place at all if it meant seeing his mentor again, under these terrible, cold circumstances.

* * *

Just like the wrestlers of old, Mantaro Kinniku had called for a press conference at the mecca of professional wrestling in Japan: Korakuen Hall. Everybody had come to expect his usual dim-witted, stupid but goodhearted antics; said expectations had been completely destroyed, however, once they saw the almost spartan solemnity of what they were witnessing. No music, no goofy gimmicks, no childish and lewd behavior. They had come to expect this type of composure out of MMA fighters, boxers and other professional athletes, but not a two-cent buffoon like the young man they called Kid Muscle.

Ironically enough, the lack of flair in this event had everybody talking, although their line of topic was rather grim. The press particularly had come to believe one theory in particular.

"God. Is he retiring?"

"Not at such a young age. I don't think so anyhow, but who knows?"

"The loss to Mask must've gotten him bad."

"Maybe he's taking time off to heal?"

"Well, sources tell me he's stepping down from active duty and competition because of all those fractures he sustained in the finals."

Only a handful of scrupulous reporters refused to support or follow these claims, and in the event that they tried to bring them into question, they were immediately silenced by claims of evidence proving the contrary. Nonetheless, every man and woman in the front row -all of them from the media- tried to maintain an unbiased, unsullied opinion as Terry Kenyon and Mantaro Kinniku finally walked out of the locker rooms, through the curtains and into the stage the IWF had prepared for them.

Many a jaw dropped. Among those present, an antelopeman and his walrus friend smirked slyly at one another, clearly knowing more than what they were letting on.

* * *

"-gosh, dude. I'm kinda scared."

"Why, ain't ya the granddaddy of all worrywarts! Look at you, all sweaty and all. It's like yer oiled up to pose down for the loser contest."

Terry Kenyon and Mantaro Kinniku closed the curtain they were peeking out from and shared a laugh. This type of playful jab would've been unwelcome before, given the circumstances, but ever since the day Kid Muscle had gotten lost in the Kinniku Castle library, he had undergone a great change in his entire self. He made a new habit out of looking people straight in the eyes, shaking their hands firmly and walking not with his chest puffed up, but definitely with his back straight and his chin always properly angled. Even his sense of humor changed, to the point he wouldn't mind shots at his otherwise insecure persona. All of these minute details would've been lost in most people, but for those who knew him closely and dearly, they knew it was a spark of a big fire about to start.

Now it was the whole wide world's turn to know.

Beyond the thick blue curtain, friends of Mantaro from all trades of life -gyuudon cooks, Trixie, Roxeanne and Kiki, servants in the castle and, of course, members of the Muscle League- awaited behind a crowd of journalists and photographers ready to capture this moment. The only thing standing between this crowd and the aforementioned curtain was a small stage, a space where only two common folding chairs and a table covered in a lavish Kinniku family tablecloth stood. The curtain itself beared the logos and names of various sponsors, all of them brands for sports gear, energy drinks and even electronics.

"I dunno. I just wish Meat could be here, y'know? The little guy would've been sobbing his butt off right about now."

"So you just want to see him cry? That's kinna bein' a bully, bud." Terry quirked an eyebrow and jokingly punched Mantaro's shoulder, unexpectedly drawing a small yelp and a squeal out of him.

"Hey! Come on, man! Watch the arms, willya? It still stings a little."

"-oh shit, sorry."

"Nah. Don't mind it." Kid Muscle replied, smiling and rubbing at the shoulder Terry had just hit. "Anyhow, I just figure he's very proud. You saw him when he was pinching himself?"

"Nope. But y'told me it looked like a nervous breakdown almost. Kinna sad considering all that yer doin' is manning up a little, huh?"

Mantaro laughed. "Word. Anyhow, I was kind of wondering..."

The Texan became curious. "Wondering about what? Don't let your mind stray too much from this thing here, alright? Keep yer eyes on the prize."

"Well, I was wondering...If I should ask Roxanne to marry me."

Terry nearly swallowed his own tongue.

"-WHOA-WHOA-WHOA-WHAT? Okay, buddy. Yer kinna takin' this change thing way WAY too fast!"

Terry looked closer at Mantaro during his double take. He was grinning like the usual lovable idiot he was.

"Oh, y'got me ya bastard. I'mma kill you! C'mere!"

Both friends shared another laugh while Terry tried to land some of the body blows his dad had taught him in his childhood days.

"Well," he said after one friendly tap on Mantaro's chest. "Leastways yer cool-headed enough to josh around."

"Yeah." Mantaro smiled, lowering his eyes briefly. "I guess so."

Terry then tugged at the hem of his bomber jacket and looked sternly at his friend. All traces of his former playfulness were erased completely from the brow furrowed right over his blue eyes. Mantaro immediately put on a straight face as well.

"I ain't gonna lie to ya, bud. It's uphill from here, and it ain't even the big time yet. Y'ready?"

Mantaro chuckled, smirking those monkey lips of his as he made sure the tie of his blue suit was on straight.

"Not really, but I'll try to be ready on the way there."

The Texan had a sudden urge to laugh out loud, not out of disapproval of such a deep thought, but quite the contrary. He was getting more and more used to this new, braver, wiser Mantaro; the thought kind of scared him a little.

"There ain't a better answer you coulda given me." he said finally. "Knock 'em dead, pal."

Exchanging one last gesture of friendship before coming out from behind the curtain, both young men bumped fists and came out of the curtain to a round of whispers, camera flashes and modest applause.

* * *

"That's right, fellas! Y'heard the man. Clear as a whistle." Terry Kenyon exclaimed, leaning back on his chair and panning the looks of the press. He was taking in the expression on their faces, and liking it very much at that, enough to snap his fingers as if it could help them recover from the shock.

_"Was this really Kid Muscle?"_ is what they all thought. The question remain unanswered.

Surely that silly mask was his, and that tuft of hair poking out of it was immediately recognizable, but something in the wrestler's demeanor had taken a complete turn. He addressed everyone politely, but never resorting to pointless flattery. Whenever he had to speak, he made his point brief and clear, enough to maintain his audience's attention. After thanking the press for coming on such short notice, and giving a succinct but well put account of what had happened after the match at the Chojin Olympic finals, his statement was crystal clear.

"After careful consideration, paying mind to the fans and what my gut has been yelling at me ever since the finals, I think a rematch with Kevin-I mean Kevin Mask, should be in the works." is what he had said just moments ago, not stuttering a single time, nor losing his composure.

The silence continued. Mantaro himself broke it.

"Those of you I hear sniffing... I didn't pee my pants, folks. That's how serious this is."

Mantaro showed a glimpse of his former self with his piggish, clownish giggle. What started as an awkward, polite laugh from the crowd turned into something sincere in the blink of an eye.

"I'm not sending any papers. I'm not contacting any lawyers or promoters." he continued after holding out his palm to the people still laughing. "I'm conducting myself with all the seriousness I can muster here. I think Kevin deserves about that much without, you know, bordering on brown-nosing him or anything. ...He-he got me pretty good when we faced each other," Mantaro looked away briefly, his eyes appearing full of emotion. "and I have no one but myself to blame for what happened. He was the better man there, and he totally deserves that trophy he took home."

Still, thinking about that really got me down, you know? I mean, I'm the son of Kinnikuman. I'm the prince of Planet Kinniku. Even if people take me for an idiot most of the time, I got expectations to live up to, and those got the best of me." Mantaro shrugged. "I'm not trying to make excuses or weasel my way out of what was clearly a loss, but there were numerous times where I came very close to winning that match, and all of you know that. I was so close on putting an end to that match that it just left me hungry, you know?"

Mantaro grinned again, shocking the reporters and the rest of the audience with his boldness. He was being watched across the galaxy, a fact he had almost come to forget after issuing the first and perhaps most important line of his statement. The red blinking lights of the TV cameras had somehow become no different from any other set of eyes to him.

"-So let me see if this is really what you're getting across." a voice interrupted.

A hand was raised among the people watching. A short, balding man rose shortly afterwards, holding a small notepad and ballpoint pen.

"Go on."

"You're calling out Kevin Mask?"

The question immediately silenced the entire locker room area.

It would've been impossible to tell if there were any signs of life in Korakuen Hall at that point. Such was the kind of silence and impact this line of inquiry invoked. Behind that mask, Mantaro Kinniku had lost some of the color on his face; only Terry, his closest friend, was close enough to notice this, since the Kinniku Prince had turned to him perhaps looking for advice or an approving nod. Anything.

"Aim for the big time, brother." is all he needed to tell him. "Aim for it."

Mantaro thus momentarily rested his chin on his fist, that pig nose of his mask wriggling to demonstrate the gears inside his head were turning. He exhaled and rose from his seat, nodding to himself to prepare for his big moment.

"You know what? Yeah."

Mantaro smirked, looking no different than a monkey that had just become the alpha male.

"Yeah! I am calling him out!"

Korakuen Hall suddenly burst back to life.

* * *

Kid Muscle openly challenged none other than Kevin Mask to a rematch. The news had reached all corners of the galaxy thru all mediums, from newspapers to internet websites and radio shows. Rumors even indicated that Terry Kenyon would be his personal training partner, which along with the experience of Alexandria Meat would prove to become a game-changing factor this time around. Now, whenever somebody mentioned Mantaro Kinniku's name, it had finally begun to mean something. The expectations which the boy had blamed for his post-match depression and disappearance had been two more things to take a complete turn for the best, becoming instead a buzz for a challenger that people started to talk about, even if it was still with a hint of reluctance.

Kevin Mask's account of these events had been told with a strange, foreign tone in his voice. He had come to respect his rival in the finals after such a close call, but even then he made no attempts to stop thinking of him as nothing more than a simpleton and an idiot with a lot of heart and great genes.

Warsman listened, aware of this tinge of uneasiness in the voice of his pupil.

"So what's on your mind now, Kevin?"

The masked wrestler shrugged.

"I'm cornered. I can't decline his challenge now that he's made it open like this."

This raised a point the Russian chojin immediately tried to attack, but rather than being blunt, he chose a more passive route.

"Would it have made a difference if he'd done otherwise? If he had been quiet and reserved?"

Kevin's eyes widened briefly, trying to hide it by looking away. Warsman pressed further with the hum of his ominous breathing.

"No. It wouldn't." the Brit finally admitted.

"So it's settled."

"What is?"

"Kinniku will bring his best to the ring next time." Warsman pointed straight at Kevin, his breathing becoming louder. "So will you."

"-w-what? You better believe you can't order me around anymore. ...Hey! Warsman! Come back here!"

At this point, the Russian Chojin had begun to take his leave, unceremoniously heading towards the door with the pained words of his student ringing behind him. Kevin jumped off the couch and ran towards him, immediately grabbing a hold of his former trainer's and friend's arm as it was reaching for the doorknob.

"Now you listen to me and you listen to me clear, you no good-"

"-Tomorrow. Six o'clock sharp."

"-wha...?"

"Tomorrow. Six o'clock sharp. Pack only what's really necessary. We're traveling light."

Kevin wasn't sure if he should feel toyed with or offended.

"No! Wait a minute!"

"Save it. Training camp's going to need every ounce of energy you can pour into it." Warsman explained, rudely pulling his arm away from Kevin's grasp. "If this Kinniku pig, as you call him, is as serious as he looks, he's going to maim you the next time you meet him in the ring. You'd last five minutes tops. Mark my words. Koho."

"You're... Oh God." Kevin was the one pointing at Warsman. "You're being ridiculous! Listen to this drivel you're saying! Please. There's no way he could have gotten stronger just from... whatever it is happened to him."

"Trust me, Kevin." If Warsman's mask had an expression, it would've shown concern, and perhaps fear. "I wrestled his father, remember? I know those eyes very well, those Kinniku eyes. The kind of determination that comes with them is the kind that would drag you to hell, and then some."

"What?"

"The stare Suguru Kinniku had in the last minutes of our match... Kid has it now."

Kevin Mask, somehow understanding the gravity of Warsman's words in an unspoken, almost mystical level, remained speechless.

"Six o'clock. Koho."

Moments later, the door was closed shut, leaving inside a Kevin Mask that was alone, thoughtful and definitely shocked. The man that had become a father figure to him after so many years of loneliness and pain had abandoned him in what should have been a moment of elation, his Chojin Crown victory. Now he was back, and his mission, as much as it hurt for the wrestler to admit, was clear. Even if he had won that tournament, the situation was quite clear: both men were about to meet once again in the ring, assuming the role of challengers.

"Yessir." he muttered belatedly to himself.

* * *

Thus began the burning pursuit of one Kinniku Mantarou, a fallen warrior who, exalted not by the glory of victory but by the bitterness of defeat, found a new light to pursue. All this time, he had only known the power of the Burning Inner Strength within him, the power that only the bonds of friendship can ignite... but now there existed something else. Depending on who you may have asked, this something else may have been pride, bravery, confidence, and yet, regardless of how it may have been branded, no man or woman disagreed when it came time to admit that, through the trials and tribulations of his shocking first defeat, a chojin who was thought down for the count had stood up to the bewilderment of those who saw him: through defeat, he became a champion.

As for those close to him? Somehow, they all agreed Mantaro looked just a little bit taller.

**THE END**


End file.
